


The Not-So-Solitary Cyclists

by DarthKawaii42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cycling, First Kiss, GIGGLING IN HARMONY, Happy Ending, John and Sherlock are on holiday, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sherlock doesn't want to wear a bike helmet because it'll mess his hair up, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKawaii42/pseuds/DarthKawaii42
Summary: " 'Cycling?' Sherlock stared at John with an expression so incredulous and full of disdain it was almost comical.John frowned. 'You never know, you might enjoy it. I find it quite relaxing. You should give it a chance.' "Whilst on holiday in Sussex, John persuades Sherlock to go cycling with him. Laughter, flirting and more ensues.Based on an adorable post by tumblr's @culverton.





	

“Cycling?” Sherlock stared at John with an expression so incredulous and full of disdain it was almost comical.

John frowned. “You never know, you might enjoy it. I find it quite relaxing. You should give it a chance.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a fraction, not convinced.

“It’d, er. It’d just be you and me. Together. Erm.” John licked his lips – an action which Sherlock observed very closely – and looked away. Some of the contempt seemed to dissipate from Sherlock’s face.

“Cycling,” he said.

John looked up in surprise. Sherlock Holmes did not repeat things. Was he really considering it? “Yeah,” he nodded. “I mean, we’re here at the seaside, it’s a lovely day, and you are supposed to be relaxing…”

There was a moment’s pause.

Sherlock jumped up from his foetal position in a sudden energetic bound. He crossed the room and snatched his coat from a peg by the front door. John tracked his movements with wide eyes. It always amazed John how easily he could lose control of a situation to Sherlock.

“Well?” said the detective, tying his scarf.

“Well what?” squeaked John.

Ignoring John’s embarrassing exclamation with unusual tact, Sherlock slipped on his gloves. “I thought you wanted to go cycling. I presume you did not intend to do so within the cottage.”

John stared, speechless.

“Come on, before I change my mind.” Sherlock gave one of those alluring half-smiles before whisking around, coat fanning in a cloak-like arc, and leaving the building.

John continued to stare.

Then, realising he was still holding his only half-finished cup of tea – and still standing there staring – he hastily dumped it on the side and hurried after him, rather in a daze.

The tea might have fallen over. John wouldn’t have noticed.

***

Upon making it outside, John Watson found Sherlock Holmes poised on a bicycle, balancing another by his side. He gave it a nudge, and, after a short moment of eye-contact, John climbed onto it.

“I’ve adjusted it,” said Sherlock. “You’re supposed to be able to sit on the saddle and have your feet touching the floor, or so I’m told.”

John grinned. It was the perfect height. “How did you know – actually, y’know what? Never mind.” 

“Helmet?” questioned Sherlock instead, nodding at his companion with a raised eyebrow. 

John tapped the red plastic monstrosity on his head. “Better than the alternative. Aren’t you gonna wear one?” 

“John, my life is continually under threat from murderers, criminal networks, vengeful adulterers, assassins, and on bad days Mrs Hudson when she’s cheesed off with my experiments. A bike helmet is not particularly one of my concerns.” 

“Rubbish,” stated John. 

“What?” 

“Rubbish. Y’know what that is? Utter bollocks, _that’s_ what that is. You don’t want to wear a bike helmet  _because you don’t want to mess your hair up_.” He looked at him with just a hint of a smirk, daring him to say otherwise. 

Sherlock hesitated. 

“Isn’t,” he said, petulantly. 

His flatmate raised an unconvinced eyebrow. 

“Whatever!” 

John thrust a second helmet – a blue, faintly shimmery thing – at Sherlock. Then, in his _Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_ voice: “Wear it.” 

Sherlock swallowed. He blinked. It might have been the light, but John thought he saw those pale, razor-sharp cheekbones redden a little. 

Without even a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock took the helmet, and, adjusting his curls appropriately, fixed it on his head.

 “Thank you,” said John, with the same authoritative tone. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. He took a deep breath. “Erm. After you,” he said, and one would almost go as far as to describe it as meekly, except this was Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t do meek. Or perhaps he did. But only where a certain army doctor was concerned.

With the hint of a smile, John pushed off, the wheels spinning with ease after the initial exertion. Sherlock caught up and they cycled side by side. 

“This is nice,” said John after a while, turning momentarily to his companion. The image of Sherlock – the drama of his billowing coat and his scarf streaming behind him like a banner, juxtaposed with that ridiculous bike helmet – filled him with a great warm flood of fondness. The detective glanced at him and a corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile. 

“Watch the road, John,” he said. “Don’t want you falling flat on your face because you were staring at me instead.” 

Some butterflies that had been lying dormant in John’s stomach since that morning suddenly flurried back to life, fluttering around with verve. But it took more than mere butterflies to overcome John Watson, and it was in the face of danger, or of uncertainty, that he was at his calmest. At his deadliest. At his best. Steely determination forced the butterflies back into submission.

“I’ve not been the only one staring,” he said, and, with a hint of satisfaction, observed Sherlock’s knuckles whiten in their grip on the handlebars.

Sherlock faced resolutely ahead. “Well, if you will wear such a flattering piece of headgear.”

All of a sudden, John was giggling, and, upon hearing this, Sherlock started laughing too – low, genuine, and in harmony with John. And God, all John wanted to do at that moment, all his heart desired, was to reach out and kiss him, kiss him till he couldn’t breathe, and then kiss him some more. The only thing that stopped him was that he’d probably break a leg trying.

“When I was younger,” John began, after a while, “we used to play this game, on our bikes, Harry and I…” His countenance became a little wistful. Sherlock said nothing, allowing him time to continue. “We’d ride next to each other, like we are, and hold hands and see how far we could manage before one of us almost fell off.”

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “Needless to say, that was not something Mycroft would have done with me.”

John felt a pang of sadness at this. He and Harry’s relationship had mostly been anything but ideal, but there had been times when they’d got along; had fun together. He doubted that the Holmes brothers could say even that.

They then slipped back into comfortable silence, meandering over the moors, skirting round the curves of the headland, inhaling the bracing, salty sea air which rushed in their ears. Below, waves the colour of slate glittered and lapped at the shingle beach. Above, seagulls curved, soared, swooped, squawking noisily. Crickets hummed in the heather.

For maybe half an hour they pedalled, appreciating the scenery, and each other’s company, and speaking very little. It was on a flat stretch of path, wide enough for them to ride next to each other again, that it happened.

Sherlock, slowly, almost cautiously, extended his hand towards John, whose heart leapt into his throat as he realised what was happening. Taking a deep breath, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his, threading their fingers together. They looked at each other and blushed.

“Sherlock…?”

“John…”

Sherlock looked at him with a tenderness reserved for John Watson and John Watson alone. All his usual guards were down, replaced with raw fondness and adoration for the man beside him.

They gradually slowed to a halt, both, it seemed, concerned that they may actually go flying over the handlebars if they continued at the faster speed whilst not only staring at each other rather than the path ahead, but also holding on with only one hand.

They came to a stop. John, not releasing his flatmate’s hand, dismounted his bicycle, took a step over to Sherlock, who just about remembered to put a foot on the floor before John closed the distance between them and suddenly they were kissing.

Perhaps – Sherlock conceded on reflection that evening, whilst wrapped up in John’s tender embrace on the sofa – cycling _did_ have its benefits after all.


End file.
